


I've Got a Text

by TheAfroCircus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Blackmail, Boys In Love, Canon-Typical Violence, Cheating, Detectives, Enemies to Lovers, Falling In Love, Friends to Enemies, Gay Sex, Harassment, Heartbreak, Help, I Will Go Down With This Ship, I'm Bad At Summaries, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm Not Ashamed, Insanity, Jealous Jim Moriarty, Jealousy, Love Confessions, Love Triangles, M/M, Murder, Murder Husbands, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Not Cheating, Organized Crime, Pining, Sexting, Sexual Content, Sexual Harassment, Sexual Tension, Sherlock Texting, Stalking, Tags Are Hard, Texting, Threats of Violence, Why Did I Write This?, will i ever learn to tag? no
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 06:27:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19987609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAfroCircus/pseuds/TheAfroCircus
Summary: Moriarty returns with a new ulterior motive and goal; To GET SHERLOCK. Only, there's something standing in Jim's way.  The boring doctor who already has him.





	1. Chapter 1

  


_I've Got a Text._

**_Did you miss me? Xxx -JM_ **

**_Answer me, sweetie. Don’t keep me waiting. -JM_ **

**_Sherlock. -JM_ **

**_It's rude of you to ignore me like this. I thought we had a special something. -JM_ **

**_You said that before. In the courtroom. -JM_ **

**_I blushed. Did you see that? Or were you too busy showing off? -JM_ **

**_Hey Sherlock, remember me? Jim Moriarty, hi! -JM_ **

**_Sherlyyyy -JM_ **

**_Sherlypops -JM_ **

**_Sherlylocks -JM_ **

**_??? -JM_ **

**_I'm not bothered by you ignoring me. I'm not. -JM_ **

**_Or by your ridiculous flirting with Johnny boy. You know I don’t share my toys. -JM_ **

**_You can do better. -JM_ **

**_I'm better. You know that. -JM_ **

**_Sherlock -JM_ **

**_Answer daddy. Come along now. Don't be stubborn… -JM_ **

**_Sherlock -JM_ **

**_Sherlock -JM_ **

**_I own you, my dear. You HAVE to know that, at least. -JM_ **

**_Hmm, but just in case you don't, you should write it down so you remember -JM_ **

**_Did you write it? No? -JM_ **

**_You're so slow -JM_ **

**_It's infuriating -JM_ **

**_Kind of cute too -JM_ **

**_Sherlock -JM_ **

**_Sherlock -JM_ **

**_Sherlock -JM_ **

**_Sherlock -JM_ **

**_SHERLOCK -JM_ **

**_SHERLOCK -JM_ **

**_SHERLOCK -JM_ **

**_SHERLOCK -JM_ **

**_S H E R L O C K -JM_ **

**_SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK S_ ** **_HERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK_ ** **_SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK S_ ** **_HERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK S_ ** **_HERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK -JM_ **

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Everyday Sherlock would get an influx of texts from this number. It started about two months ago, after his flight into exile was abruptly canceled, when Jim Moriarty's face appeared all over London. At first it was one at a time and only once in a while, but once in a while, turned into a couple times a week which turned into so many texts at once that his phone sparked and he had to get a new one.

These days Sherlock ignored all of the texts for the majority and told no one about them. 

It was Moriarty. This he was certain. There was a 300% increase of crimes as of late and they were all _terribly_ clever. There were extensive clues and links to Moriarty's criminal web. There was no doubt in Sherlock's mind that the criminal was alive. Also the man sent him idiotic ‘selfies’. He was sent partially nude photographs as well, which looked accurate in length and girth by the man's approximate height and weight.

**_(Picture message received)_ **

The detective rose a brow at the screen. He knew he wasn't incorrect about the man's body measurements but if one were to judge them by this particular photograph and _angle it was taken in_ , one would assume that he was.

Sherlock once again put his phone on silent before saving the photographs to a folder. He saved everything Moriarty sent him, every photograph, every video, pointless gif of cats, every text, everything. Anything could possibly be useful at a later date. There must be some vital information hidden in one of them. A particular set of words, the background of the photos, a stain on the couch. Even the barely noticeable mole that was peaking through the neatly trimmed pubic hair. 

The texts would not stop. Jim was exceptionally bored it seemed. Three years of hiding would do that to a man that was mad in the mind. It made one itch for anything. Any distraction or stimulus to ease the boredom, to alleviate the pain of overthinking. He knew the feeling all too well but he coped by other methods. Either a solution of cocaine and heroin or The Work. It was fortunate that Jim didn't seem to have a drug addiction. Sherlock wasn't sure whether the man would benefit from the distraction or become even more unstable and insane. Although Jim seemed to already become the latter as of late. The madman would not leave him alone. Harassing him, sending him presents that he had to hide from John or burn. He had no clue as to what he should do with the gift wrapped anal stimulator that was left on his doorstep. The card attached to it gave a few suggestions but Sherlock did not take advice from criminal masterminds. 

The toy now lay abandoned inside of a hollowed book, hidden somewhere in his bedroom. He tried to delete the memory of the thing but it was proving difficult, what with being sent graphic examples of how to use it. He truly hoped the one used in the examples was not the same one he received.

Sherlock did his research on the matter. It would appear as though Moriarty was sending him what was known by the youth these days as ‘nudes’. The detective would call them by what they clearly were; Pornographic videos and photographs of Jim engaging in various forms of masturbation. As well as stimulating his prostate using a multitude of different devices. Phallic-like objects of many textures, shapes, and...quite impressive sizes. He tried very hard not to attempt to deduce just how much the man could possibly stretch. He was never particularly interested in sex but he admits that Moriarty made him a bit curious. His knowledge of the subject has drastically increased ever since he regained contact with the consulting criminal. 

Jim texted him everyday without fail. It was interesting to say the least and bordering on sexual harassment to say the most. The whole situation was very odd. However, the detective knew better. This was a ploy, a distraction, a game that Moriarty was playing to get into his mind. He allowed Moriarty in once. He would not allow the psychopath into his mind again. The people he ~~cared about~~ \- _TOLERATED_ \- would not be harmed again. He vowed it. He would die before he would let that happen again. He would die for real. Sherlock knew he had to figure out Moriarty's next move. He had to do _something._

**_‘I'm horny. Wanna see it? ;) -JM’_ **

For now, he would shut off his mobile phone. If only to not see the photographs followed by that last message and to avoid finding out whatever ‘it’ was.

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Sherlock knew that Moriarty has begun to rebuild his network. It was incredibly weakened but it was running again and getting bigger by the moment. The cases were pouring in. The detective solved them two and three, even four at a time. Jim was getting restless. Scotland Yard was getting furious and incredibly frightened. As was all of London. Bodies were dropping like flies, and bombs and scandals consumed everyone. 

People were dying, the public was being terrorized. Buildings old and newly constructed were collapsing from demolitions that were not authorized. They were destroyed without being cleared of the lives inhabiting them, certainly not the doing of any sane person. Power was shifting from old officials to new officials that seemed to appear out of thin air. The economy was collapsing almost as fast as the structures. Mycroft was not amused when Sherlock suggested the last one most likely had nothing to do with meddling from a criminal. 

The detective was not one for name calling- (Oh, shut up) -but it is with Sherlock's expert opinion and flawless deduction skills that he is able to say with utmost certainty,...that Jim was a complete drama queen. The man was killing so many people just because he couldn't get his way. He killed hundreds of people just because he was being ignored. It was laughable, pathetic even. Very tedious, as well.

The detective did not blame himself for the deaths of these people. He was not the one to blame for the detonations of bombs or the assassinations by bullets. It was ridiculous for him to possibly think he shared any of the blame for Moriarty's crimes. He did not have to humor Jim or play along with the man's idiotic game, pretending to flirt with him to throw him off, to confuse and distract him. It wouldn't work. Of course it wouldn't. Sherlock needed to focus and plan his next move towards defeating Moriarty once and for all. He did not have time to waste looking at pictures of the man's…

The detective shook his head but it did nothing to erase the images that suddenly surfaced. He needed to _focus_. Everyone was on his rear, standing on the end of his belstaff, monitoring and watching. Mycroft and his handlers, they wanted him to stop this immediately. If only it were that simple. 

Sherlock knew exactly what Moriarty wanted from him but he could not give it. Or at least he did not want to. The end game. Getting his heart burnt, getting it torn apart, and getting _ruined._ He was looking for another way, another solution to this problem, but he couldn't find it. Not yet at least. 

“I'm back from the shops.” John walked up the last few stairs into the flat. He carried two full bags on into the kitchen. 

“Hm.” Sherlock made a vague noise in the back of his throat. He sat at his desk with his hands steepled under his chin. 

“After doing _all_ of the shopping, I am definitely not cooking. Or ever going to the shops ever again, for that matter.” John huffed as he dropped the heavy bags on the hazardous table. He was far too tired to worry about being poisoned or having a toe fall off and walk away on its own. 

The doctor sighed and started to think of places in the flat where food could be stored safely. Perhaps he wasn't too tired to worry about losing an appendage. In which case, he should ask Mrs. Hudson if he could store it in her kitchen. John tried not to groan as he realized he would now have to carry the bags back down the stairs. 

“Take away tonight, Sherlock?” John asked over his shoulder, placing a container of honey onto the table. He didn't need to refrigerate that. Besides, Sherlock would (hopefully) use it all quickly. That is, if John could get him to eat tonight. It was more difficult to do so these days but John needed to get something into him at least. He searched for space in the cabinets as he waited for Sherlock to respond. 

Sherlock said nothing at all, staring directly in front of him. His face was full of concentration and a bit of distress. He looked slightly disgusted, his nose wrinkling. Every few moments his brow would furrow.

John placed the jar he held down on a possibly safe side of the counter. When he turned, his only view was of the back of the messy mop of curls. 

“Sherlock.” John called and received no answer. "You're eating tonight. Can't have you wasting away, there's barely any of you as it is. I'm making you a cuppa." 

Again, no acknowledgement from the detective. The doctor let out a sigh of dismay. It's been like this since Sherlock was ‘rescued’ from exile by ‘Moriarty’. Thank God the madman was actually dead and this was just some copycat doing these vicious deeds. He trusted that Sherlock would catch them and put a stop to all the murders and scandals eventually, no matter how long it took. Although, it was taking an awful long time. It has been almost two bloody months and Sherlock didn't seem much closer to catching this new serial killer. Now Mycroft, MI6, Scotland Yard, and all of London were on their backsides. They wanted this case solved immediately. No one would leave them alone. They could barely step out of the flat. It was bordering on harassment now. If the vulgar spray paint on their door was anything to say about it.

John was worried. For his own sanity, London, and more importantly for his friend. The stress was eating them up alive. Sherlock barely spoke much these days if it didn't have to do with a case. The doctor could barely get the man to eat or sleep. It was getting out of hand. Well, he figured he would have to count the bit of blessings he had. At least Sherlock hadn't started smoking again. That would be a nightmare on top of all the other ones. 

It seemed John spoke too soon. His eyes widened in surprise as Sherlock pulled both a lighter and cigarette from somewhere on him. Now, he was trying to light it. 

John shook his head. Enough was enough. “No, no.” He marched over. He took the foul smelling thing and the lighter out of his friend's hands. 

Sherlock frowned and his head spun around. “John." He said in acknowledgement. However, it showed fear of being snuck up upon. "When did you arrive?” 

John made a mental note to announce himself louder from now on when he entered Sherlock's space. He'd tell the Yard and Molly, Mrs. Hudson as well. John himself had issues with being startled but with therapy he was able to manage it. 

Sherlock apparently did not have a handle on the PTSD symptoms he was experiencing. It was a bit obvious by how Sherlock's hand immediately went for the gun he kept taped under his desk, as soon as John's presence was discovered.

“Not ten minutes ago. I was speaking to you the entire time.” John explained, making sure to include his usual tone of irritation. He had to create a sense of normalcy for Sherlock to fall back to. He didn't give the whole truth but did it matter? He just wanted Sherlock to relax and take his hand farther from the bloody gun.

Sherlock tilted his head as he always did when he was unaware of something. It bothered him and inside he kicked himself for not paying attention. “I didn't notice.” 

“I can see that…” John said, stubbing the cigarette out on a tray full of ends and ash. “When did you start smoking again?” he asked, as if it were an afterthought. It absolutely wasn't.

“How long was I dead?” Sherlock asked not a second later. He turned his head to the sharp intake of breath given by his doctor. 

John winced, a sudden pain rising in his chest as he thought of his life without Sherlock. It was as if he lost him again but only for a moment. When he came back from the flash of memories, he felt a wave of nausea. “Sherlock…”

The detective felt a twinge of pain himself as he took note of John's agonized expression. Sherlock kicked himself again. He did not mean to send John into panic, no matter how short it lasted. 

“Sorry.” Sherlock muttered. “It was a week before my suicide.” He averted his gaze. “It helped with the stress of...having to die.” Clarifying quickly, he looked at John. “My fake suicide and fake death. It wasn't real.” he reminded his friend. “None of it was, John.”

“I know and thank God for that.” John started to breath evenly again. He ignored his own palpitations and growing headache. He was more than happy to change the subject. “What did you do today?” 

“I solved a case.” 

“Good.” John nodded. “Which one?” 

“Amberly Cuarton.” Sherlock told him, picking up a random case file from his piles. He has never been this far behind on cases. He tried not to dwell on it. “Missing art dealer's wife.”

“Oh you found her?”

“Run off with another woman, leaving her lover behind. Not worth my time.” 

“I'm sure the husband was crushed.”

“Nearly.” said Sherlock, casually. “When he flung himself off of a train for which he purchased a ticket. Never used his seat. Bit of a waste of money. Could have seen a mindless film to cope but I suppose everyone has their own prerogative.” 

John looked alarmed as he naturally did with these things. Ignoring ever bit after ‘flung himself off of a train’, he asked. “God, is he alright?”

“Institutionalized.” 

“Oh.” 

“Yes.” 

“I suppose that's for the best.” John blinked. Naturally, he tried to find a silver lining. 

“Hm, no. His soon to be ex-wife is now left in charge of his estate, accounts. Lucky to have the NHS, he can't afford another night in asylum otherwise." 

John blinked. Looking away, he tried to bring the conversation to a close. “Well...it seems you had a busy day.”

“Quite.” said Sherlock. It was not busy at all, obviously, but he did not make the correction.

“So have I and I'm starving.” John declared. “Dinner?” 

The detective started to shake his head. “No, I'm-” 

“Don’t.” John snapped at him, pointing a finger and pocketing the lighter. “You're eating and I'm taking this because you're not smoking anymore.” 

“It calms me.” 

“I'll prescribe you anxiety medication if that's the case. It'll calm you more and you'll be able to sleep.” said the army doctor.

“I need to be alert.” Sherlock protested. 

“You'll be alert after having some rest.” John reassured him. “Now, go clean up. We’re going out. We're going to have a nice dinner and a long talk.” 

Sherlock opened his mouth to object. The look on John's face he received in response did not look as if objecting would be wise. His decision already made for him, the taller man made himself presentable. He followed his friend to Speedy’s, where they did begin to have a nice dinner. They started to chat, as well. If you could call this an actual chat. It was only John voicing his infinite concern over Sherlock's health. Which, Sherlock already anticipated. 

John did this often. He would talk to Sherlock about his health as his doctor and friend. It was always a long speech about how Sherlock needed to mind his health better. The doctor urged the importance of mental health as well. Even though Sherlock tried to remind John (as much as he could without upsetting him) that the suicide was fake and didn't have any hidden underlying meaning towards mental illness. John insisted that his concerns on Sherlock's mental state had nothing to do with ‘The Fall’, as they called it. John claimed his only concern was what was happening in the present and not the past. 

Sherlock called malarkey on that one. If John's nightmares had any say in it, and they did, John was haunted by his best friend's 'death'. Meanwhile, Sherlock locked away his demons in the very back of his mind palace under maximum security. He would try to explain this to John to ease the soldier's mind but he knew doing so would only do the opposite. Furthermore, he refused to admit that he had demons in the first place. He was fine, utterly fine. 

Thankfully, John didn't give him as big of a talk as Sherlock expected. He was grateful. He was far too distracted to pretend to listen to John for more than the usual three and a half minutes it took for the doctor to get a point across. 

John seemed to be excelling at getting to a point. The detective was a bit proud. At the two minute, three point half second mark, John made his closing statement. 

“You need to start focusing more on your health, Sherlock, because I can't always do it for you. You need to eat and sleep and bathe and take breaks every once in a while. Alright? I know that's a bit of a challenge for you and I know you're under a lot of pressure to solve this thing, but health, especially mental, should be a priority. Above catching the villains and throwing them out of windows.” John smiled at his own joke. 

The detective did not laugh but he felt his heart briefly show it was alive at John's reference to the past. Or perhaps it was the army doctor's smile. The two were the only constant, sensible things put on a pedestal inside of his mind palace. Johns smile, and the fondness John showed towards him. Sherlock cherished them deeply.

“Point is, Sherlock,” John continued. “I'm here for you. Greg is here, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, and Mycroft. Always.” 

Sherlock watched as John reached across the table and placed his hand over his, giving a light squeeze. He noted how John's skin glowed from the lit candle on their table in between them, how his eyes reflected the small flame, turning them even warmer than they already we're. A feat Sherlock thought was most impossible before this second. He rarely allowed his eyes to linger for too long on John because he had much trouble tearing his eyes away. 

“Thank you, John.” said the taller man and rotated his hand to return the intimate gesture. A light squeeze, or at least as light as he could make it. Which he realized, wasn't light at all. He was positive he was clutching John's hand as if he were emotionally starving.

John did not seem to take notice or he did not mind. Why didn't John mind? 

John smiled at him, brighter, and full of emotion. If only Sherlock could be around to witness John's smiles forever. He couldn't be, of course. That was foolish thinking. Idiotic. Sherlock knew very well that he would not live that long. He was never going to. 

“Thank you.” Sherlock said again, thanking the man for so much more than John could imagine. 

“Of course.” the doctor said.

The moment passed and John released his hand. 

Sherlock fought the urge to grab John's hand again, to ask for help and talk to him. How it pained Sherlock to not be able to go to his best friend once again, regarding his life. He hid the pain in his eyes just like he did before. Or was he hiding them at all this time?

John did not take notice of the pain emanating from the sleuth. He knew Sherlock needed time to think over the things he said, to really take them in. The doctor cut a bit of steak and carrot. 

“Always, Sherlock.” John reminded him without looking up. “Remember. I'm here. I'll always be here.” 

“I know.” Sherlock said, distracted. He peered down at his phone on his lap. He kept an unreadable expression as he read the latest texts.

**_Wrong -JM_ **

**_No he won't -JM_ **

**_Stupid :P -JM_ **

**_But I will -JM_ **

**_You can always count on me to be there, Sherlock -JM_ **

The detective knew this to be the truth. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Surrender

Everything's been very different since Sherlock's return from the dead. He didn't know if it was a good different. It was a change, something left unspoken between him and John as they settled back to (almost) how things used to be. When he came back, he expected John to be furious. To have moved on, possibly to a woman that he planned to propose to, or something equally ridiculous. Yet, John was not angry, and he did not move on. He stayed in 221B, broken and full of regret. 

John blamed himself for Sherlock's death/disappearance. He had hoped, prayed even, that Sherlock wasn't actually dead. He admitted it felt like a delusion, but it was all he had to hold on to, else he himself would disappear. 

Sherlock held John while he cried and shouted, breaking down before his eyes. The man clung to him while he whispered promises in his ear. That he was alive. That he would always be here now. That everything would be alright. What lies those promises had been. He did not mean to lie at the time. He thought these words to be the truth in the moment. Sherlock thought he would stay alive. He thought Moriarty was dead and that they were safe. Then came Magnussen, that disgusting filth of a man. He was a snake. He threatened John. He knew John was the one that killed that cabbie on their first case. He knew a lot about them, more than he should have. Magnussen almost killed John in that bonfire. Sherlock enjoyed blowing his brains all over the cement. 

Then came his exile. John was distraught, losing him all over again. But the detective was saved by the interference of Moriarty, who was very much alive. Sherlock was the only one who knew the truth. He lied to everyone, all of them being none the wiser. Mycroft, of course, was suspicious, but it was fairly easy to curb his deductions with coincidental facts that supported an opposite conclusion: The lie that Jim was dead. 

He hated lying to John, but there was nothing he could do now. He did not know how much longer he would be alive or how much longer until he would have to leave John behind again. Moriarty would strike eventually. There was only so much longer that the criminal would stand being ignored. Sherlock was running out of time. He refused to go to Jim and confront him, so the consulting criminal would come to him eventually. It was only a matter of when.

For now, Sherlock could only solve the cases Moriarty planned for him. They were getting very repetitive, and he was immensely bored with them, which meant Jim was more than likely even more bored with them than he was. He also did his best to ignore John's growing advances towards him. They were getting closer romantically, domestically, and possibly even sexually, but he could not let things go far. It would only hurt John in the end when he was gone, but lord was it nearly impossible. John got so close and gave seemingly insignificant touches, but they burned Sherlock's skin so badly. He did not know how much longer he could resist his urges. He hoped Moriarty would kill him soon, or else he would surely die from the growing need he felt. 

John would not let up, and Sherlock had to let his guard down a bit. He figured he did not have to refuse all of John's affections. Some of them were surely acceptable, perhaps? 

Now they sat on the couch under a blanket, cuddled up together. John had his head rested on Sherlock's shoulder, and Sherlock had his head rested against the back of the couch. He had his eyes shut as John massaged his scalp with a marvelous hand. 

Sherlock was partly in his mind palace but mostly enjoying John's attentive hand. He did not notice when the first few kisses were placed on his shoulder, starting to travel up his neck. They ventured to his jugular and became more forceful, a lot more suction. His blood collected under the skin where John kissed, leaving darkened marks and indentations.

The detective frowned. He slowly exited his mind palace, coming back to 221B and quickly started becoming undone. Trying to think was proving very difficult. It was a rare occasion when Sherlock Holmes was rendered almost speechless. Almost, because he was clearly communicating _something_ through odd sounds that emanated from the back of his throat. 

Sherlock swallowed twice before speaking. “ _J-John_ …” His voice came out weaker and more enthusiastic than he intended. There arrived his stammering, which usually reared its ugly head when he was flustered by someone showing interest in him.

“Hm?” John hummed against a rapid pulse, leaving behind bright colors and more indentations that the detective would love to take photographs of and document.

Sherlock wouldn't mind being buried with them tucked in his breast pocket, over his mutilated heart. That is, if Moriarty didn't cut it out of his chest before throwing his body in the Thames. But who was to say that the criminal would return his body at all in the end? Moriarty could burn him to ash.

“ _Breathe_ , Sherlock.” John instructed, his own breath ghosting over the shell of the man's ear. 

The taller man was not aware he'd stopped emitting oxygen. Was that the reason his mind was shutting down? Malfunctioning? The doctor's hand angled Sherlock's head in another direction and Sherlock found that he now had a pleasant view of their ceiling. He briefly attempted to count the spider webs before giving up. He could not identify the type of spider sitting in the center of them all, but he was able to identify the spider's prey. A mere fly, unable to free itself of the arachnid's sticky prison. 

John kissed any freckle he could find on the area of Sherlock's skin and soon trailed under the right ear. Chuckling, at the groan Sherlock gave when his tongue swept over the lobe. 

“You are so beautiful…” he said, softly, and he meant it. “Desirable, brilliant. Absolutely.” 

Sherlock groaned again as John's other hand ventured into his robe, under his plain white shirt. His skin was feeling much warmer now, and every place John touched felt like sparks of electricity that went straight to his serotonin receptors and ended up at his groin. He's never felt this kind of desire before, this kind of need, for anyone. If love was this strong of a drug, then to hell with cocaine. He'd never touch it again. He'd give up all his drug habits for John.

The palm slid over his stomach, and fingers lingered along each of his ribs. Gooseflesh arose on him, and he gave a shudder. John's delicate fingers, awarded with a doctorate for their expertise on the human body, found his nipple. Sherlock took a sharp intake of breath as it was rolled between fingers and toyed with, hardening between the gentle appendages. His body was… reacting. It very much wanted what was happening. It _ached_ for it. Then John climbed into his lap and he _felt_ _it_. John's erection pressing and starting to slowly move against his own. 

“God _, John_ …” Sherlock mewled against John's lips. 

He was very, very erect now. John felt _so_ good. Their bodies were meant for each other. Sherlock had never felt such a fire burning within him for another person. He wanted John, needed John, had to have his good doctor entirely. To hell with not advancing, with not enjoying life's pleasantries while he could. He would be dead soon enough. What the hell did it matter if he indulged in having John Watson for the rest of his life, however little of it he had left? He was entitled to having this. He deserved to have this. He's never known true happiness before, never known it was possible for a man like him to love someone as dearly as he loved John Hamish Watson. He would not stop this. He could not. He did not want to stop what was happening. He needed it to continue. 

Sherlock allowed himself to give in, _finally_ taking what was rightfully his, allowing John to claim him. He kissed his doctor with repressed vigor, melting into the feeling of their quickly heating bodies and John kissed him with just as much enthusiasm.

“ _Sherlock,_ christ. I've waited so long to-” 

Just as John was about to untie the belt of Sherlock's robe completely, their windows shattered and glass erupted around their flat. Three bullets were fired into 221B, crashing through the window. One after the other, going right over their heads. They were abrupt, warning shots. 

Sherlock's instincts took over and he acted quickly, throwing himself and John onto the floor. His body wrapped around John's, automatically shielding him from any harm. Inside, the detective was having a panic. _No, no, no. Not now. How could Jim act so quickly?_ He thought he had more time, much more time with John.

John was speechless underneath Sherlock, ducking his head down low. He had no idea what was going on. One moment he was about to have possibly the best shag of his life, and the next, _whatever the fuck just happened_. His heart was hammering in his chest, and his hard on was out the door. He registered what was happening slowly and he became even more terrified that Sherlock had just taken bullets for him.

“Sherlock!” John cried out with great panic in his voice, feeling what he thought was dead weight on him. He pushed at it to get himself up. _No, please no. I just got him back. No._

The shorter man was relieved when the body on top of him pushed back in return. The detective was actively keeping him on the floor. Sherlock was alive. Thank God he was _alive_.

“Have you been hit?” Sherlock demanded, his mouth pressed against the back of John's head. When there was no immediate answer, he tried again, much louder this time. “John, answer me now!” 

Right in John's ear, at that. “Ow. No… No… God. I haven't been.” John said breathlessly. “Have you? Are you alright?” 

“No.” the detective allowed himself to breathe. "Yes, I'm fine."

“Good. Good. Oh my god… Sherlock. What the HELL was-” 

“Shh.” Sherlock latched onto him tighter to stop the doctor's panic attack, burying his nose in the back of John's neck. “I love you immensely, John. I'm sorry.”

John panted. “I...I love you too…” He rested his cheek against the floor, letting his body go limp and his eyes shut in exhaustion. They stayed the night on the floor. He didn't ask it, but the question floated briefly in the back of his mind before it was decidedly forgotten. _What was Sherlock apologizing for?_

Next to the overturned coffee table, Sherlock's phone chimed with a new message.

**_‘Stop it. NOW. -JM’_ **

  


.

**_._ **

.

  


“And the shots just came through the bloody window?” Greg Lestrade asked. 

Lestrade was shocked yet thankful that no one was hurt. It looked like those bullets came close to both Sherlock and John's heads. Thank God they missed, or else he would he solving the double homicide of his good friends. This copycat killer was getting bold: Outright attacking Sherlock Holmes and John Watson in their own home. This had to end. Enough people had been killed by this new psychopath. The cases were piling up on his desk, which also did not look good for his division.

“Yes, right through the window.” John repeated. He was still a bit shaken and worried about what could have happened. He couldn't help wondering what would have happened if the bullets had actually hit one of them last night. Or both of them. They narrowly escaped death once again. He would never get used to the feeling it left behind.

Lestrade kept jotting down notes for the report he was making, looking at the broken window with a shake of the head and then back to his notes. “What was going on right before the shots?”

John's cheeks flushed, beginning to scratch the back of his head. “Uh...well, that-"

Thankfully the inspector got distracted by the lack of one high-functioning sociopath. “Wait, where's Sherlock?”

John sighed. “He's gone and locked himself in the toilet after I called you. Haven't heard a word since."

Lestrade stated out of pure curiosity. "Have you ever heard him-"

"What? No." John furrowed his brow, thinking back briefly and hurrying to shake the thought of his- of Sherlock masturbating, away. "No. I haven't." 

"You sure?" 

"Yes! _Why_ are you-"

"Shh." Greg hushed him, causing the doctor to groan. 

" _Yes_ , I'm sure." John said, quieter. "Why are we having this conversation?"

Lestrade shrugged. "People get curious." 

"Well it's not people's business, is it?" The doctor remarked in annoyance at the apparent idiots at the Yard. They had no right asking about Sherlock's personal matters. 

"Bet he's quiet, anyway. Bit automatic." 

John chuckled before he could stop himself. "Oh no he's definitely not-" He coughed, looking away from the detective inspector's look of shock/horror. "Right. The window." John turned to it, getting back on track, diverting. "Bullets came through, nearly killed us, I called you, Sherlock muttering as he ran to the loo." 

It took a moment for D.I Lestrade to come back to the crime committed against his mates, and away from the bit about his mates finally shagging. "Uh…Window. Muttering. Shagging." He made sure to jot down that last one in his notebook, not caring about John's roll of the eyes. "Sherlock... _really?_ I mean-" 

"Greg." 

"Sorry. What did he say?" 

"Look if you're not going to investigate-" 

"Before hiding in the toilet," Lestrade clarified, starting to write down actual notes. "What did he say?" 

"Oh...God…" John paled.

"You know, in spite of what you and Sherlock might think, I'm not a complete waste of breath." 

"...Sorry…" 

Lestrade shrugged. "Eh, it's alright." 

"No. _Sherlock_." John said, eyeing the bathroom door with growing worry. "He said sorry. He kept saying he was sorry." 

  


.

**_._ **

.

  


Sherlock was furious, pacing in the small space of the bathroom. He gripped his mobile phone so tight in his hands that he risked breaking the damned thing. He typed rapidly, not bothering to sign any of the messages he sent. Moriarty did the same in response, just to mess with him. Mockery in its purest form.

_‘You do not endanger John's life! You do NOT shoot at John Watson!'_

**_‘Oh you're talking to me?'_ **

**_‘Hiiiii Sherlyyyyy’_ **

**_‘How u doing? :)’_ **

_‘You could have killed John!’_

_‘And that would have been your biggest mistake.’_

**_‘I don't like how you're talking to me, honey.’_ **

**_‘Be a good boy now or daddy will put you over his knee.'_ **

_‘I mean it. You will deeply regret it if you harm him.’_

**_‘You're being boring.’_ **

**_‘Send me some nudes or something that I can enjoy.’_ **

**_‘I need to get the sickening image of Johnny boy touching you from my mind.’_ **

_‘I won't send you anything.’_

**_‘Pleaaaaaase?’_ **

_‘NO.’_

**_‘You only think of yourself :('_ **

_‘Are you listening to what I am saying?’_

**_‘Not at all and I'm booored.’_ **

**_‘Come play with me already. I'm dying over here.’_ **

_‘If only I would be so lucky.'_

**_‘Meanie >:( Send me a picture of your cock.’_ **

Sherlock's nostrils flared and he grit his teeth. The man was impossible and idiotic. Moriarty would not get away with putting John in danger. How could he show the criminal that he was serious with his threats? That anyone that dared touch John would be killed brutally. 

“Sherlock? Love? Are you alright in there?” John asked, knocking on the bathroom door. 

Greg rose a brow at the term of endearment but tried to ignore it for now. He would definitely ask later. “Sherlock, come out. I need your statement.” 

Sherlock did not answer them, only standing in the middle of the small room. He clutched his phone tight. It gave several chimes one after the other. 

**_‘I'm waiting.’_ **

**_‘I bet you have a nice cock.’_ **

**_‘You have nice lips too…’_ **

**_‘They'd look wonderful sucking me off.’_ **

**_‘Maybe that'll get you to shut the fuck up and fix my problem.’_ **

Sherlock dared to ask. 

_‘What problem?’_

**_‘You won't have room to talk about John with my dick down your throat.’_ **

_‘Are you jealous?’_

**_‘No, my dear. I don't do jealousy.’_ **

**_‘I just don't want his disgusting hands and whatever else touching what's mine.’_ **

_‘I'm not yours.’_

Sherlock waited for a reply, ignoring the knocks and pleads of John and the impatient coercion of Lestrade to come out. A reply never came. 

_‘I'm not yours. I don’t belong to anyone.’_

_‘I don't.’_

_'If I were to belong to anyone, it certainly wouldn't be you.'_

**_'Who else could it be, Sherlock? Hmm?'_ **

Sherlock hesitated far too long, missing his chance to give a dignified and safe reply. In trying to keep John safe, he let his ego do the opposite. Jim said it himself years ago that he didn't tolerate people in his way. He eliminates any threats, anyone shining in his light. 

**_'Interesting.'_ **

_'No one. I belong to no one.'_

**_'Hmm… '_ **

**_'Anyways!'_ **

**_‘ ;) Gtg hun. Very busy. See u soon. Xoxo. -JM’_ **

Sherlock growled deep in his throat. It seemed he had less time than he once thought.

John sighed, ceasing his insistent rapping on the door. He ran a hand through his graying hair. He hoped Sherlock would come out soon. He wanted- no, needed to check him over again. He needed to see once again that he was alright. He needed to tell him how happy he was that the detective had lived and how they both had lived. And...perhaps when he calms down, he would like to finish what they started last night. 

Just as John was about to tell Greg to come back later when Sherlock was more cooperative, the door opened. Sherlock came out of the loo, placing his phone back into his pocket in silence. 

“Sherlock!” John breathed a sigh of relief, wrapping his arms around the detective. “Are you okay?” 

“Fine.” He muttered.

“Why'd you lock yourself in the toilet?” Asked Lestrade. 

“I showered.” Sherlock answered, simply.

John moved his head back to look at him. “No, you didn't.”

“Well I was going to...but…” Sherlock couldn't think of an excuse and he didn't care to. He was livid and so very exhausted. So much more than physically. “I'm sorry...I'm in shock.” He said slowly. His mind was too loud at the moment, in too much of a panic.

Moriarty had threatened John. He never thought Jim would stoop so low. He would never have threatened the criminal’s precious Sebastian. This was a different game entirely. One he knew he would not win. John meant too much to him to gamble. Perhaps he could curb Jim's jealousy with a distraction. He wanted to spend his last few weeks with John in some peace. Sacrifices to maintain that will have to be made. 

“You'll need to be relocated. We’ll put you up in a nice hotel for a few days while we-” Lestrade started. 

“No.” said Sherlock, suddenly. “We’re fine here.” 

The detective inspector shook his head, looking incredulous. “No you're not! An attempt on your lives was just made, and you said you were in shock.”

“Not that kind of shock.” Sherlock clarified. “I am shocked by this level of retaliation, but this will not happen again.”

“How can you be sure?” asked Greg.

“He was sending a message which has been received. I will send one in return.” The detective told them. 

Greg rose a brow. “And what message would that be?” 

Sherlock's jaw tightened with discontent before he finally answered. “A surrender. Excuse me.” He dismissed himself back into the loo. If Jim wanted to play this game then so be it. 

John and Lestrade watched the door shut in confusion. The two of them had no idea what their strange friend meant, but that was the usual. They would just have to trust Sherlock like they always did. He would fix everything in his own way. Things would be fine or somewhat fine as usual… They hoped. 

  


.

**_._ **

.

  


Hours had passed since his last text to Sherlock. He hadn't been lying. He was busy before but now the day was over. 

In a hideout outside of London, Jim Moriarty was on a couch. His body was sprawled out over the soft cushions, his head turned towards the meaningless romance film that was playing. He barely paid attention to the telly, sick of seeing the same old story of heterosexuals falling in love. It was sickening. Jim already watched all gay movies in existence, all of the ones shown in a negative light as well. He was so bored. Porn didn't do much for him either. Bad acting, even ones with somewhat better acting, better plot lines. Boring. Crime barely stimulated his brain anymore. He's consulted it all already: killings, kidnappings, robberies, scandals-you name it. He already had many connections in many places. The government, Scotland Yard, the courts, everywhere really. He had control all over London. He could do whatever he wanted without consequence. He could do it all. The problem was, he already did. Jim was at the very top and there was nowhere to go from here. 

Jim gave an exaggerated moan of mental agony, scrubbing his hands down his face. Flopping them down at his sides, he was left staring up at the ceiling. The boredom was eating him alive, rotting his brain, his intelligence wasting away. He needed something dangerous to do. Or someone. He didn't want to just lay here with a gun on the table, itching like an addict to take a bullet to his brain. He picked up the pistol daily, it's approximate weight engraved into his mind like the numbers of a code. He held it, toyed with it, kept it polished. He's put it against his head at every possible angle, working out every detail of what the scene would look like if he did pull the trigger. At a 90 degree angle and held directly to his temple, the bullet would go straight through to the other side. A gaping hole in his frontal lobe, an instant off switch to his entire being. It was like shutting down an entire computer system by ripping out its battery. A sudden blank screen, pitch black. His body would fall instantly, his spinal cord no longer receiving signals to keep his body standing. Perhaps it would fall a bit off to the side, leaving blood and pieces of brain matter draining when he hit the ground. If he tilted the weapon even the slightest it would change the scene entirely. The possibilities were endless. It was a shame that he would only get one chance at it, that one could only experience their own demise once. 

Jim wanted to experience it over and over and over until he's exhausted all possible outcomes of his death scene. He's practiced hundreds of times with other people. No one would be able to get it quite right every time, making murders look like perfect suicides, but he could do it and did every time. However he wasn't the only one who could be that clever. There was, of course, Sherlock Holmes. Moriarty licked his lips at the thought of his detective. His cool detective, his dear Sherlock. Playing hard to get and teasing him with that moron of a doctor. No, he wouldn't stand for that at all. They were made for each other, him and Sherlock. Jim and Sherlock, Sherlock and Jim. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. His poor Sherlock thought he was meant for that doctor, but Sherlock got it _wrong_. He'd show Sherlock how wrong he was and how right they were for each other. 

It appeared as though he wouldn't have to wait much longer, if the text he just received had anything to say about it.

_'Pool. 4am. -SH'_

Jim was delighted as he got ready, wanting to look his best. This was their first date, after all. 

* * *


End file.
